“He wants to take our farm, Poppa!”
The words echo in my head as I sit here, waiting to learn the fate of my child. Words pointing out the path of God’s will. A memory of an argument with Thomas, my son.
Thomas is sixteen years old. He questions everything, and this is as it should be. Never fear to question what is known. My father taught me that. But as with most young men his age, Thomas is slow to think and quick to anger.
Ah, I must apologize. I see by the look on your face that you have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t wish to burden you with this, but since we’re both sitting here, awaiting the judgment of the Transport magistrate, perhaps you would listen to my story? It will help pass the time. Yes? I thank you for that. I’m alone here today, and though we’re strangers, your presence brings me comfort.
I see by your clothing that you are not Amish. Please, there is no judgment when I say this. I simply point it out so that you understand why I explain things about myself. Things that, to another Plain Person, would seem unnecessary. I want you to understand what has happened. To truly know the tragedy that has befallen my family.
My name is Abram Brenneman. My family and I arrived in New Pennsylvania … is it three years ago already? As you might have guessed, we were part of Transport’s Emigration Incentive Program. We received the standard land grant—including livestock, seed, and building materials. In fact, we were one of the first twenty families granted land in the newest section of the AZ after Transport increased their recruitment efforts on Earth in 2090. We set up our homestead, planted our ground, raised our animals.
When I was younger, I lived in your world. A world where everything moves quickly, as if trying to catch up to itself. But it never seems to, does it? You fall asleep planning the next day and swear you’ll take a moment for yourself or your family. And the next night, you fall asleep reciting recriminations for failing to do that. I remember the cycle well.
The life of the Amish is much slower. Our focus is on the task at hand. Milking the cow, sweeping the floor, enjoying a cold drink on a hot afternoon. We believe that God grants us the grace to experience these things. Some would call that lifestyle simple—and most of the time, they’d be right. But sometimes we Amish face complicated times. History has, on occasion, asked us to conform. Our way is to simply move on, away from that demand to compromise our values, until we find good soil again and can start over. We have learned to stay alert for such times. It’s still difficult for me to accept that one of our own, a Plain Person, would have once more invited history to our doorstep.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Matthew Yoder is an elder in our community. I assume you know next to nothing about us, so let me explain: elders are ministers. They lead our community. They conduct worship services, prescribe the scope of the ordnung, our community’s rules. They guide our spiritual development. It’s important to understand this. Matthew’s position made his proposition all the more shocking, and difficult to resist at the same time. Which brings me back to Thomas and our argument.
“He wants to take our farm, Poppa!”
We sit at the long table in our home, a simple wooden structure with three rooms: the common area (a dining room-kitchen-sitting room), a bedroom shared by the children, and the bedroom I share with my wife. I glance at Anne as she washes the dinner dishes. I see reflected in her eyes the conversation we often have regarding Thomas these days. He is young, Abram, her reassuring smile reminds me. Too old to be so young in his thinking, my eyes sigh back to hers.
Our daughter, Mary, sits across the room, sewing a quilt in the flickering candlelight. She uses two candles, an extravagance we allow her. She’s always determined never to miss a stitch, and we want to encourage her industriousness. Even now I see her there in my mind’s eye, beautiful and focused. The image of that simpler time—when a drought was my greatest worry—makes me want to weep openly.
“You assume too much,” I say to Thomas. “He cannot take our farm. The government granted it to us. He cannot simply take it.”
Thomas rolls his eyes. “He speaks for the Transport Authority! Or were you not listening, Poppa?” His fear and frustration drive him to his feet. I remain seated in his shadow. Sometimes strength comes from not having to demonstrate you have it. My father also taught me that.
“Lower your voice when speaking to me,” I say quietly.
Thomas clicks his teeth together. He’s trying to remain calm but losing the battle with his glands. He’s a young man. Too old to be so young. He stands in broiling silence, which grows uncomfortable.
“The proposal he offered is nothing our people haven’t heard before,” I say, to fill the empty air.
“He was not very pleasant about it,” Anne says, wiping her hands dry. “That’s a certainty.”
I grant the point, saying, “I have found Matthew Yoder is rarely pleasant when it comes to an opportunity to make money from Transport.” I’m venting a bit of my own distaste for the man. Matthew Yoder is what we refer to as money-Amish—what we call someone who lives our lifestyle but is more concerned with making money than most.
Thomas puts his hands on his hips and looks down at me. “Why shouldn’t we modernize? Horse-drawn plows and wooden troughs bringing water from the river … we could make more with better equipment, spend less time tilling the soil and more”—he looks around for evidence for his argument, then gestures at Mary—“more time quilting!”
His sister notices our conversation for the first time. “I would like that,” Mary says simply. I smile at her innocence. I want to keep her that way forever.
This debate is as old as the Plain People. The tug of tradition against the push of progress. But some see embracing innovation as tantamount to surrendering our way of life. Nearly a century and a half ago, during the Second World War, we resisted serving in the military. In response, the U.S. government put the I-W Program in place as a way of placating those who saw the Amish as cowards. The program asked us to serve in factories on the home front, supporting our country but without compromising our commitment to pacifism. Many elders despised the program. Moving to large cities—being exposed to the allure of the fast life—permanently fenced off many of our young people from their Amish roots.
So when someone suggests that modernizing how we farm is a simple advance in technology, they rarely consider it from our perspective. How we raise crops, maintain livestock—these are not mere questions of technique or technology. Rarely can one man and his family maintain a large farm. He needs his neighbors. Sowing seeds promises to feed you next winter, but planting with others beside you nurtures your community’s roots.
Modern equipment allows one man to do the work of many. Efficiency improves. Communities dissolve.
“So now you endorse Matthew’s suggestion?” I ask, incredulous. Then I remember he is angry, not thinking. Anything he says now is meant to prove himself right, whether he be right or not.
“Better to modernize than lose the farm! Or maybe you just want us to run away … like we always do!”
Ah, there it is. His glands again. My son is ready, quite literally, to beat plowshares into swords. “I will not explain again that which you know so well,” I say. “I will only say this: we won’t resist them should they come for the farm. We will simply move on. We will continue.”
“Then we modernize!” My son slaps his hands on his thighs, a magistrate passing judgment.
I look at Anne, who sits down at the end of the table beside me. Her eyes are patient, always patient. It is, perhaps, the one quality I love most about her.
“No,” I say, turning to face Thomas directly. I do not stand.
His jaws clench. His fists stretch the tendons of his strong forearms, flex the muscles built beside me in the fields since he could walk.
“You’re not only an idiot, you’re a coward!” He yanks the front door open and flees.
Now, though I’m older than Thomas, I’m still a man. M
y son has just called me a coward. I rise, my own mind giving way to fury. But patience puts her calming hand on mine.
“Let him go, Abram.”
I turn furiously on Anne. She draws away, but her hand stays. Her patience is stronger than my anger. I sit back down.
“Is he right, Poppa? Will Elder Yoder take our farm?”
The quilt is set aside on Mary’s lap. She looks worried. She idolizes Thomas. I try to keep my explanations simple, honest, and nonthreatening for my daughter’s ears.
“He might,” I say. “But I don’t think it will come to that. There are others—Elder Noffsinger, the Benders—they’ll also resist what Elder Yoder proposes.”
Anne folds the dish towel neatly in squares and places it on the table. “Perhaps we should begin talking with them.” At my raised eyebrow, she clarifies quickly, “About forming a new community.”
I consider that. “We should certainly talk to the others, but honestly, if this is happening here—at Transport’s behest—it’s likely happening across the entire AZ. Transport would almost certainly enforce their new requirements on any new zone we raise. We might be simply delaying the inevitable.”
Anne’s lips grow thin. Not with anger, with concern. I see the same furrowed brow, the same worry I’d seen in Mary’s face moments before. Anne is her daughter’s mother. “And what is the inevitable?” she asks quietly.
“The choice Thomas laid out before us. You know as well as I that no one homesteads without Transport’s approval. That’s what the AZ is for, they’ll say. We granted you land, handed you equipment and livestock, they’ll say. This is what history has shown us.”
“The Richmond Ruling?” Anne asks hopefully.
We won’t find help there, and I say as much by shaking my head. As you might be aware, the Richmond Ruling only protects the Plain People from having BICE and TRID devices installed. The ruling proscribes as much as it prescribes our rights under Transport. One notable caveat specifically requires that the Amish make their case for not conforming, whenever the Authority identifies a need it considers important enough to warrant suspending their rights under the Ruling. In these situations, each case is then judged independently … by a Transport magistrate. The most common result of such a proceeding is a judgment amounting to the application of eminent domain over the rights of the individual.
“Why don’t we fight?”
Mary’s question has the same innocence as before, when she said it would be nice if there were more time for quilting. She has an earnest look on her face, the same kind of focus she gets when stitching.
“You know the answer to that, child,” says Anne. “Violence is not our way. If God’s will is that we should move on from here to preserve who we are, then that is what we’ll do.”
“What if God wants us to fight?”
I sigh. “Christ taught us to turn the other cheek, Mary. You know this.”
“I remember a story,” she says.
“Yes?”
“Of Jesus and the moneychangers in the temple,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t he destroy their tables and drive them from the temple? Wasn’t that violence?”
I pause in my answer. I know by doing so I seem as if I don’t have an answer. But I don’t want to patronize my daughter. Children tend to think in such black-and-white terms, so I must answer her in a way that she can understand and accept. But my answer must also be honest.
“Jesus restored God’s temple to its holy purpose,” I say. “It became again a house of worship rather than a bazaar for profit.”
“So …” Again, the serious look. The furrowed brow. I can almost see her young brain carving a new path on its surface, learning to think. “So, violence is all right if its purpose is holy?”
“Violence is never all right,” I say. I can hear the tension rising in my own voice. It’s not meant for Mary, but it’s directed at her. I’ve begun to fear that her assumption might be what Thomas is thinking too. Perhaps he considers himself a holy warrior. Perhaps he will do something stupid. But I should have known … I should have known.
“Mary, that’s enough for tonight,” says the voice of patience.
“But Momma—”
“I said, that’s enough. We have worship tomorrow, and Brother Lambright’s farm is a long way from here. We’ll need to get up earlier than usual.”
“Yes, Momma.” Mary stares down at the unfinished quilt in her lap. I remember being twelve and feeling responsible for upsetting my parents but unsure why it was my fault. Of course, it never was. She folds her quilting quietly and rises. “Good night, Momma. Good night, Poppa.”
“Good night, Mary,” I say. And then, because it’s important she hears it right now: “I love you.”
Halfway to her room, she stops and turns. “I love you too, Poppa. Will you … will you look for Thomas? Is he okay?”
I feel tears catch in the back of my throat. While we’ve been debating theology, my son is out there, angry and alone. Perhaps I should have gone after him after all. My daughter has reminded me what being a good parent is.
“He’ll be all right,” Anne says. “He’s just upset. He’ll be back in time for worship.”
Mary nods, but I see those arched eyebrows again. She wants to believe, but her worry overrules her. “Good night,” she says again.
I watch her go into her room and slowly close the door. I consider the story of Jesus and the moneychangers and search for an answer to Mary’s question: “Violence is all right if its purpose is holy?” I can come up with a half dozen rationalizations, but none that truly explain Our Lord’s choice to physically overturn the tables and run the moneychangers out of the temple. These are not the actions of a meek man, I admit to myself. Perhaps His passion overruled His rational thought on that day, as Thomas’s did tonight. As mine started to. Perhaps Mary is right, and there is an acceptable time for violence after all, if used for a holy purpose. But my faith cannot accept this. Then the irony hits me—the story of Jesus and the moneychangers comes to us from the Gospel according to Matthew.
The next day is Sunday. We’re awake well before dawn to hitch up Maisy to the buggy for the long jaunt to Brother Lambright’s farm. He is hosting worship services today. Every other Sunday a different family hosts. Thomas is beside me this morning, preparing for our journey. He jerks the girth of the harness roughly around Maisy’s belly. She snorts her displeasure.
“Maisy is not trying to take our farm,” I say quietly. He doesn’t reply but pats her rump, murmuring to her softly as he loosens her girth strap a bit.
The ride to Brother Lambright’s farm is long and mostly silent. Anne talks with Mary about the hymns they will likely sing today. I don’t force a conversation with Thomas.
When we arrive, the men congregate in the barn to decide who will preach today. As we mingle, Matthew approaches me.
“Good morning, Abram,” he says.
“Good morning.”
He places his hand on my arm, grasping my right hand in his to shake it. I want to pull away from this man who has caused such dissension in my own family. Instead I grasp his hand in return. Firmly.
“I feel like I might’ve stepped over the line yesterday,” he says. “I wish to apologize if so. It was not my intent to threaten. That is not our way.”
He is right, I think. It is not our way. However, I’ve had more than one occasion to question what Matthew Yoder’s way is. I literally turn my head so my right eye focuses on him.
“Passions get the best of us sometimes,” I say.
He nods, placated. “I was wondering—might I come over for dinner tonight? Let’s start the conversation anew. I’ll bring an apple pie and cider, if that’s agreeable.”
I consider it. Perhaps this is an opportunity to smooth everyone’s feathers. To show Thomas what talking openly can do. And best of all, it was Matthew who offered it. I cannot say no and call myself a good father, or a good Amishman.
“
Of course. I’ll speak to Anne. Sundown?”
He smiles. “Sounds perfect.”
Soon the sweet sound of singing from the Ausbund, our hymnbook, begins the formal worship service, and we men sit opposite the women on benches placed in Brother Lambright’s front yard. Thomas sits beside me, straight backed and proud, and Mary sits next to her mother opposite us, a half-pint reflection of Anne’s beauty.
Despite the various ministers who sermonized on several topics, I remember little else about the nearly three-hour service, save for one word: gelassenheit. It describes one of the core precepts of Amish society. In a way, it encapsulates all that we are. I have grown to hate it.
Elder Noffsinger is the speaker. “Gelassenheit is the glue that holds our community together,” he says. He looks meaningfully across the open faces of the boys and girls on the benches and continues. “It’s a ‘death’ or ‘dying’ of self. A willingness to subjugate the worldly desires of the individual to the needs of our community. An acknowledgment that for the community to succeed—to move forward and continue despite obstacles placed in its path—the individual must die to themselves and become something greater.”
For most, this sermon is nothing new. I glance at my own children and see them fully engaged. Often, as it is with any religious service, ministers can drone on; worshippers can doze off. Some do that now as Noffsinger speaks. But not Thomas. Not Mary. I’m blessed with children able to see the relevance of a sermon in their own lives. Or, perhaps, cursed is a better word for it as I think back to yesterday. Even listening there on that bench, it caused me worry. How would Thomas hear this? If only I’d known then what would happen, I might have been able to stop it.
The rest of the service is a hazy cloud of hymns and homilies. Fellowship around bountiful tables of food afterward. A long ride home, though less silent this time.
“Poppa, did you hear what Elder Noffsinger said?” asks Thomas. “About sacrificing oneself for the benefit of the community?”
“I heard,” I say.
“Did it mean anything to you after our … after our conversation last night?” I can hear in his voice that he’s working to stay calm, rational, and I’m proud of him for that. He knows this will win his point faster than would calling me a coward again. I haven’t raised an imbecile.
Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection Page 2
